


Gold

by holdinginfinity



Category: Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy ending though, M/M, Potential noncon, be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdinginfinity/pseuds/holdinginfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t until years later that Tulio realized maybe, maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that everything he ever wanted—gold—was the color of Miguel’s hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what this document is saved as. "Why the fuck did I write this"
> 
> And that should give you a good clue as to my attitude toward this. I saw this post on tumblr (http://newvagabond.tumblr.com/post/27418862122/milodrums-hotaru29-pandalolli) and this whole thing just happened.
> 
> Warning for some hints at noncon/prostitution. If you're easily triggered, skip this one.
> 
> I stole and slightly altered lyrics from PATD songs (Northern Downpour and When the Day Met the Night).

Tulio’s life had never been easy. His mother sang in the streets for money. When that wasn’t enough, she allowed men to draw her into dark alleyways. Tulio tried a great many things to supplement their meager income. He tried to find work, but no one wanted to take on a thin, dirty nine-year-old boy. He tried to sing alongside his mother, but his voice cracked while hers was high and clear as a bell. He tried to steal food, pickpocket passersby, but eventually that idea was beaten out of him. He tried to catch fish in the shallows, but they were faster than his clutching hands.

When his mother died, Tulio didn’t have the energy to cry over her. She’d been sick for a long time, screaming at him and crying in turns. She laughed for hours and then stayed up for the entire night whimpering in fear and whispering, “ _Malignos, mijo, son malignos.”_ And he’d run himself ragged trying to feed them both. For weeks, he’d split his meager share in half so that she could have more. In the end, it wasn’t enough, and he turned his back on that dusky city to dig his mother a proper grave in the countryside, so she could rest in the quiet.

Weeks later, he was gaunt and grief-stricken, huge blue eyes sitting in sunken holes above hollowed cheeks, lazing in the shade of a courtyard countless miles away from his old home. That was all he had the will for; and occasionally, he earned the pity of some rich stranger, whose _pesetas_ clicked loudly into his cracked beggars’ cup.

An old man with skin like leather and eyes that twinkled like stars in the sky of his weathered face showed him a patchy grin and threw a pair of dice into his cup. He whistled as he walked away.

That night, Tulio’s teeth catch against fresh bread and soft cheese. He retches soon after he finishes his meal, but that’s just fine because the future isn’t so dark anymore.

 

The future was never quite so dark as the night he’d found himself kneeling on the smooth cobbled stones of Seville. Cortes was younger then, but so was Tulio, and young boys are cruelest to other young boys.

Tulio spat blood as Cortes kicked him again and again. He felt like something was splitting apart inside of him, hadn’t felt that way since the first time his mother had cried out in fear when he touched her. Only now it was a lot more physical.

He’d attempted a con, simple but not often recognized, and Cortes had seen right through it. Tulio thought that this was probably because Cortes was a snake, who knew his way around rot and deceit. But coherent thought was becoming harder and harder as his body screamed for relief from Cortes’ torture.

And, suddenly, miraculously, Cortes stopped kicking him. The men holding Tulio’s arms kept a tight grip on him, preventing his collapse—in retrospect, that was probably a good thing, because Tulio’s broken body couldn’t handle much more abuse.

There was a man who, to Tulio’s blackened eyes, looked like an angel. His outstretched arms and splayed hands asked Cortes for mercy. Tulio was too dazed and awed to make out what he was saying, but his voice evoked memories of sunshine and laughter.

Cortes was not inclined to be merciful, and with a jerk of his chin, the other men of his ensemble took hold of the angel-man so that Cortes could batter him more effectively.

Their joint beating didn’t last much longer. Tulio fainted when they broke the other man’s nose.

 

The noise of his own groan woke him; his body felt like one massive bruise, accented with shallow lacerations from Cortes’ cruel spurs. Cool fingers prodded his side again, and Tulio forced his swollen eyes open as he cried out, louder.

The angel had green eyes and golden hair, made all the more vibrant by the vivid purple and blue bruises stretching across his jaw and under his eyes. He smiled widely at Tulio, though the effort clearly pained him.

“I think your ribs are broken.” He said, in a tone of voice that suggested that this idea delighted him. “But you _are_ alive.”

 

Miguel was his name, and he seemed to laugh as much as he spoke. He was as stubborn as a mule, sticking to Tulio’s side until Tulio’s belligerence turned into grateful acceptance. Two-man cons were more elaborate, but they often yielded better results. It had been years since Tulio had experienced the bone-aching hunger that composed most of his childhood, but he couldn’t consider himself more than comfortably impoverished until he became partners with Miguel.

They never stayed in one place for long—just long enough that their names and faces became important for the guardsmen of the area to know.

 

Miguel was quiet about his past, but so was Tulio. They acknowledged old wounds, each resisting the urge to probe. As the years passed, evasions and sudden silences helped each man piece together what he needed to know of his partner’s history.

Tulio’s staunch opposition to journeying anywhere near the city of dusk and _malignos_ didn’t go unnoticed, and Miguel never failed to observe his tenderness to children raised by single mothers. For his part, Miguel’s brightness was tempered by stories of poverty and starvation. Often his gaze was tired and sad as he watched elderly couples. Tulio was quick to distract him with increasingly preposterous ideas for cons.

 

The girl in Barcelona was the catalyst for an unexpected development in their partnership. They’d been conning together for years when Miguel picked up a mandolin, admiring it, and Tulio had taken the hint, distracting the shopkeeper so masterfully and insistently that Miguel was easily able to slip away.

Tulio hated the damn thing from the moment Miguel had plucked experimentally at its strings for the first time. He regretted helping Miguel steal it and made every effort he could to dissuade Miguel from playing it. He loosened the pegs, weakened the strings so that they snapped as Miguel played, “misplaced” it often, and even went so far as to offer it during one heated gambling match with a self-professed musician. (The man, of course, was not a musician by any means—but he entertained notions of entertaining women with music).

Miguel’s stubbornness had not been tempered by his years, though, and he plucked and strummed the mandolin incessantly, learning how it felt in his hands and against his body. He composed songs and fitted lyrics of old and filthy sailors’ songs to snatches of twangy melodies.

One night, Miguel’s golden head was bent low as he played a soft, cheerful tune of his own imagination. He leaned against a sturdy tree, painted with warm colors from the last slanting rays of sunset. Tulio watched quietly, simmering with quiet annoyance. Eventually, he could take it no longer, and forcefully pushed himself to his feet.

Miguel threw him a questioning glance, but his fingers continued to wring songs from the mandolin.

“Will you stop that for a _minute_?” Tulio spat.

Miguel frowned. “Why?” The music took a dark turn, the notes coming slower and deeper.

“I can’t hear myself think,” Tulio replied, tugging at his dark hair. He’d sheared it all off recently, to combat the summer heat. He’d picked up the nervous habit of pulling at the short strands—his fingers were unused to its length.

“You don’t have to stay,” Miguel said loftily. He paused playing briefly so that he could adjust a peg, and struck up the tune of an old song about a man who was discontent with his marriage, so he became the moon’s lover.

“I don’t,” said Tulio, and walked away. It felt more final than he’d really intended, but he had too much pride to go back to Miguel while the night was so young. Miguel began singing as Tulio walked away, and the song ghosted along behind him for what felt like hours.

_When the moon found the man_

_He looked like he was barely hanging on_

_But her light saved his life_

_In the middle of summer_

 

Tulio found a woman, alone, not long after he left Miguel. She sat on the street corner, eyes downcast, until Tulio stopped before her. She was young, but she looked so old that dust could settle on the dips and curves of her body. A torch cast light on her from above, darkening her cheeks and eyes. She was slow to meet his gaze.

“Forty _pesetas_ for an hour,” She told him, voice low and raspy.

He cringed. “No, I—“

And she frowned at him, her eyes saying what the she could not—he wasn’t welcome if he wasn’t a customer. Likelier than not, she’d tried to say that aloud and been beaten for it. He stooped low, so that he no longer loomed over her, and dug around in his pack. He and Miguel lived almost day to day, but he hadn’t eaten all of the bread they’d gotten for dinner.

She lurched away, but didn’t run. He offered her thick, white bread—good and fresh, because he’d won three games in a row today—and sat back on his heels in satisfaction as she cautiously took it from him and sank her teeth into it.

Her name was Esmerelda. She told him of how she’d fallen for a rich, young merchant, who promised to marry her. That is, until she’d slept with him. Then he’d called her a whore and worse, booting her out into the street.

Her family was dead, except for a brother who lived somewhere in the dusky city that Tulio ached to think of.

He gave her all the money he had on him, and promised to return with more. He could see that she didn’t trust him, but he also knew that the lure of money and food was too great for her to flee from.

 

He found Miguel in the same spot, singing a song that he recognized as one of Miguel’s own.

_If all our life is but a dream_

_Fantastic posing greed_

_Then we should feed our jewelry to the sea_

_For diamonds do appear to be_

_Just like broken glass to me_

Tulio dropped his now empty pack near Miguel, who glanced up at him with a happy smile. There was no malignant triumph, no pride. Just happiness that Tulio had come back to him. He put the mandolin down and leapt to his feet, catching Tulio in a rough embrace.

“I’m sorry,” He said, voice muffled against Tulio’s shoulder. “I won’t play anymore. Just don’t leave again.”

Tulio held him tightly for a moment, and then loosened his grip sighed, “You don’t have to stop. I’m sorry for leaving. But I need your money, and food, if you have any.”

Miguel quirked a brow at that, but didn’t seem particularly troubled. He agreeably offered Tulio his own pack, in which Tulio found more bread and a sizeable amount of coins. Miguel shrugged when Tulio threw him a glance.

“For a rainy day,”

Tulio sighed again, guilt filling him at the idea of taking away his partner’s hard-earned money. But he thought of Esmerelda, waiting for customers on that dusky corner, and his resolve hardened. He pulled Miguel along, his fingers tight around Miguel’s tanned wrist, promising to explain later.

 

The girl was waiting for them. She burst into tears when she saw Miguel, who looked pale and sick. Tulio stopped in his tracks.

“Tulio,” Miguel whispered.

Esmerelda backed away, face aghast. Before Tulio could stop her, she turned and ran, darting down an alleyway.

“Miguel?” Tulio asked, turning his partner so that they faced each other. Miguel met his eyes, but with a haunted gaze. Tulio felt desperate and helpless—never had he seen Miguel like this. He gripped Miguel’s shoulders, called his name over and over.

Finally, life stirred in the green eyes Tulio knew so well. Miguel’s gaze sharpened and focused. He finally _saw_ Tulio, saw his panic and despair. The dark-haired Spaniard nearly sobbed with relief when he recognized Miguel’s revival.

Eyes lit by the flickering torchlight, Miguel surged up against Tulio, fitting their lips together. Tulio reeled back in shock, breaking the kiss.

Miguel blinked, as if surprised by his own action, and then smiled dreamily. “I’m glad you came back,” he told Tulio.

 

It wasn’t until years later that Tulio realized maybe, maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that everything he ever wanted— _gold_ —was the color of Miguel’s hair. Every casual touch, the shared _siestas_ , the excitement of a shared gamble suddenly had new meaning to Tulio.

He worried that maybe Miguel had changed his mind. Maybe when he used Tulio’s stomach as a pillow, he meant nothing by it. Maybe when Tulio’s fingers had brushed Miguel’s as he handed him his share of dinner hadn’t meant anything. Maybe the kiss was a mistake, chalked up to adrenaline.

 

As he hoisted Miguel up so that his partner could taunt some poodle-horse with an apple in the hopes of getting a prybar out of the deal, he couldn’t help but think of how their lives could have turned out differently.

Parched and stranded on a rowboat with the poodle-horse and his partner, barely able to speak, he choked on a declaration of his love over and over, reasoning that if he was going to die, he might as well spit it out.

In the jungle, he found the words almost slipping from his lips as he caught Miguel in an embrace; his fingers fell away from his partner’s waist even as the confession died in his throat and Miguel waved at the stupid poodle-horse.

He felt his breath taken away by the domesticity of Miguel bringing him a fish on a leaf-plate as he tried to find a position that soothed his sore ass.

He felt fear for himself when the strange man cloaked in tiger-fur jerked a spear at his throat. He felt more fear for what would happen to Miguel after he was gone.

The awe that overcame him as the sun danced on temples of _solid gold_ was no comparison for the feeling he got when he looked at Miguel’s expression.

He was drunk because his goblet never seemed to be empty of the local wine—he wasn’t sure it was wine, but it was damn good—but the women who threw themselves on him weren’t as important as Miguel’s drunken, laughing form reclining beside him.

And maybe he let Chel go down on him, but it wasn’t her lips he was imagining.

The leopard was tearing the city apart and he told Miguel to get Chel out of there, but he was more worried about his golden-haired partner than he was about the girl.

They’d saved the city from a bloodthirsty tyrant, but all Tulio cared about was what Miguel thought of that split second their lips had crashed against each other before they’d leapt off of the platform together.

His lips said he wanted to sail back to Spain with Chel, but his heart spoke another name; it rhymed.

It hurt Tulio to see Miguel smiling at the chief, even though he was crowned like he deserved, and he knew the people of El Dorado would treat his partner with the respect he deserved.

When the statue was falling, he couldn’t bring himself care about anything but the fact that Miguel was on that damn poodle-horse and jumping for their boat—the way Miguel beamed at him made his heart swell like the wave they would soon be riding.

Maybe they lost all the gold—except for the poodle-horse’s shoes, don’t think for a moment he doesn’t know about that—but what’s important is that he and Miguel are still together.

 

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself from pulling Miguel in close and tight. They’re both sopping wet and Chel is watching, but who cares? Who cares when Miguel’s green eyes shine with laughter and love, and he just _knows_ that all the worry he’d felt over unrequited feelings was a waste of time.

He leans down and catches Miguel’s laughter with his lips, kissing the golden-haired god until the laughter turns into something like fire. It’s heated and passionate and from atop the poodle-horse, Chel clears her throat three times before they break apart.

She says, “ _Finally_. Now let’s go.”

Miguel and Tulio grin at her, then each other.


End file.
